


The Grimm Grimmoire

by Little_bounce



Series: The Grimm Grimmoire [1]
Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_bounce/pseuds/Little_bounce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What went into Sean Renard's college report? What does a Grimm's mid-life crisis look like? How thick is Monroe's file of Nick-Accidents? How well does a Grimm adapt to modern technology? How do you prank a Grimm/Blutbad/Lowen? How do young wesen endure puberty?  A series of VERY, VERY SILLY one-shots showing the outside edges of the lives of our favourite Grimm characters... past, present and future...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Education of Sean Antoine Renard

This is just one of a series of very daft one-shots exploring the past, present and future of our favourite Grimm characters - without committing myself to a plot ;) They don't connect into a story. Just a series of opportunities to be exceptionally daft. Anyway, hope you enjoy. Here's the first in the series: the early education of one Sean Renard...

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

National Academy for Studies in Tyrannical Yeomanry (NASTY)

64 Vincent's Square,

LONDON,

SW1P 4LL

* * *

Course: Introductory Strategy for Evil Overlords Report: Year-end performance 1989-1990

Student: Sean Antoine Renard (DOB 07/06/1970)

Tutor: Dr Feer

Final mark: 76% (C). Moderately dastardly. Must improve.

* * *

 

**The basis of this assessment**

I have compiled this assessment on the basis of my observations of you over the last year and summarised the conversations we have had during our quarterly reviews. None of the following comments or my final recommendations should come as a surprise, unless of course you weren't listening during any of our quarterly reviews. As you do not often blink or apply your facial muscles during a conversation, it is difficult to know how much is being actively absorbed. I also feel obliged to remind you, here, that you are being objectively obsessed in your own rights as a potential and future evil overlord and that my recommendations are in no way connected with your current status as a junior member of a sinister Royal Wesen family.

Your syllabus: a summary of results First semester:

* Charmless delegation: 75% (C). There is still some charm visible. This must stop.

* Evil laughter: 35% (fail). We have spoken.

* Moving the corporate goalposts: 98% (A+ and an all-time NASTY record. High marks given for adding extra objectives to lecturers' performance plans without them noticing. Two percentage marks lost for doing it to your lecturer. Again, we have spoken.)

Second and final semester: Man-management dissertation – recruitment initiatives. Outstanding work, covered under 'highlights'. (A.)

 

* * *

**Highlights of the Year:**

Your Masterclass in 'Stony Stares'. This was a highly over-subscribed event with excellent outcomes. It was a rather quiet class, which could have benefitted from some early ice-breakers. However, post-course feedback indicates that those attending have gone on to unnerve an average of eight more minions per week, which is a clear and measurable benefit and you demonstrated your own course material in a manner that left no one of any doubt of your natural flair in this area. We are grateful to you for sharing your singular skill with other students at NASTY.

Setting up the dark side of the canteen. Your initiative in doing this was widely appreciated. The NASTY management have long felt that the pastel shades, broad-panel windows, excessive sunlight and flower arrangements were counterintuitive to destructive thinking. Sectioning off a 'thinking' corner was inspirational: the combination of burgundy paint, Rothko paintings and three-hundred-year-old creaking furniture has made the area highly popular and has produced a great deal of sinister ruminations and high-quality work.

Man-management dissertation: recruitment techniques. A year highlight was unquestionably your outstanding performance on launching the "High Potential Dominators selection pilot". This was not just a personal triumph, but a NASTY one, which we can now sell to corporations across the world. The concept of setting up a series of roleplays to test a candidate's capacity to oppress at a moment's notice has been nothing short of game-changing, allowing careful selection of future evil overlords on the basis of their cunning and immoral fibre. Of particular note was your highly inventive PollyAnna simulator, which very inventively tests a candidate's ability to withstand half an hour of oblivious, merciless optimism in the face of unpleasantry and death threats.

The following testimony comes directly from the Professor of Nefarious Strategy: "After hearing so much positive feedback from recruiters and applicants, I had to try out the PollyAnna simulator for myself. Although she was just a hologram, she severely tested my patience and I was ready to throw rocks through the laserbeams after her third sweet-natured smile. It is reassuring to find that I am still able to destroy morale within five minutes, but the simulator has rather exposed some rusty areas in my supposedly unflappable exterior. I can only imagine that young Mr Renard, the creator of this simulator, has by now hardened himself permanently from any outward expression of emotion during the test phase of this particular device. He has a fine career ahead of him."

* * *

**Areas for Improvement**

You have acquired a great many oppressive skills: your crushing asides and withering sarcasm are well-respected across the department. However, we did discuss your interpersonal skills. In particular, the troubling way in which you speak to the minions assigned to you. On some occasions, you have been seen to be downright pleasant, which is entirely unacceptable. In a recent example, you asked minion #32 for a cup of tea in a perfectly normal tone of voice. Having caught my eye, you hastily added: "AND YOU WILL DO MY BIDDING!", but your hesitation and reluctance to thunder were duly noted. If you are to attain a sufficient mark to continue beyond the first semester of your final year at NASTY, you must seek to instil a sense of disparagement and dread in your everyday communications as a matter of course.

Your grade for the evil laughter module is an insult to NASTY and the hard work that is invested in managing an evil overlord's public image. I regret to note that you are not taking this element of your personal development remotely seriously, and I must say that your attitude to this part of the syllabus has been little short of shameful. Professor Elmo has told me that he is lucky to get more than a sardonic smirk out of you. The few marks you were able to scrape together for this course were the result of him (very kindly) grading the sinister chuckle you gave him when he threatened to throw you off the course.

Finally, _please do not_ expose your Hexenbiest at the other students while you are showering after the gym. As much as you like your privacy, everyone has the right to a shower. Scaring them out en masse is ungentlemanly and expensive. To explain this to you in the clearest possible terms, mass startlement + slippery floors = expensive accident compensation claims. If there is another such incident of this kind, your father can pick up the bill.

* * *

**Future career options**

I'm not sure that your future lies in being an evil overlord. My view is that you are merely half-fiendish, and that your 'better' side, for want of a better word, reigns for the majority of the time. The fact that you have to battle with your dark side is not a sufficient reason to remain at NASTY. There are very many, very able students here with no good side whatsoever who may not have your intelligence, but certainly have the darkness required to work on the strategy and tactical element of things. I believe that you will do better in a position of authority in an organisation that is set up to allow senior persons to operate with a great deal of secrecy. In this kind of environment, you would have the freedom to hatch dubious plans undetected (until you want them to be detected), travel for free, oppress at moment's notice, and of course look continuously grave, given the managerial weight upon your shoulders.

It also means that you can – if the mood takes you – be pleasant from time to time without being conspicuous. Your C gives you the right to continue for the first semester of the next academic year. However, if the improvement points above have not been addressed, I see little point in taking your education here any further. You may have better luck with the National Institute for Conflict Encouragement and if you are interested, I will refer you. They have branches in the states, and recruitment links into most US law enforcement agencies.

Have a good summer break and I'll see you in September.

 

Dr Daniel Feer.


	2. Very Grimm arts and Crafts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second in a series of very silly, unconnected shorts.
> 
> Nick's mom has a mid-life crisis and goes all 'silver surfer' on him, exposing some of their grimmer possessions to the general public...

**Second in series of very silly unconnected shorts. Who says that Grimms can't rule the internet?**

**X x X**

"Um… Nick. Is your mom having financial troubles?"

As far as Nick was aware, Kelly had done some light pillaging in Cos after destroying the second coin, so she should be ok. "Not that I know of. Why?" He looked up from his two-page directory of meek wesen and glanced over at Hank and Monroe, who were staring at Hank's Ipad, transfixed.

"Just 'cause there's stuff cropping up on e-bay which has… well… let's say it has limited sources, dude. I found _these_ because I was looking for fingerless gloves…"

Nick stared at the screen and felt his breakfast try to make a cameo reappearance. He stuffed his knuckles in his mouth to suppress the moment of nausea. A hairy, detached Blutbad hand sat on a table with fingers and thumb clawed upwards, making a little bowl. The description read: _Gothic art, 'Gloveless fingers'. Good gift for unwanted mother in law, or perhaps an ashtray. Available in sets of two._

"…and if you filter by her seller's profile, there's more." Monroe clicked back to a different tab on the browser and Nick gaped at the items on display. Hank lost his own breakfast battle and sprinted off to Monroe's toilet, making room for Nick to sit beside Monroe. His mom had been _busy_.

* * *

_Bloody Morning Star, two spikes missing. Sits neatly flat on table. Makes good bill spike. Can be rinsed before posting at buyer's request._

_Spare ornamental scythe – owner no longer needs. Extra postage on bubble-wrap._

_Ogre-shaped gift containers – can be wrapped._

_Gothic taxidermy gift: "Das Jagerbar." Life-size. Available only on collection._

_Living nightmares tee-shirt selection. Buy one, get one free._

* * *

Nick and Monroe enlarged the graphic for the range of teeshirts, which essentially featured a fat-outline print drawing of the lamprey-like Lebensauger in neon pink, yellow or lime green against black fabric. Nick could only stare at Monroe, who shrugged helplessly.

"Hey, don't make me choose, man! They're all so _beautiful_!"

Nick scratched the back of his head distressedly. "What the hell's she doing? Has she got a seller's handling name?"

Monroe squinted. "Uh… GrimKellyB. Real subtle. She may as well call herself Mommy_Burkhardt's_Not_Dead_Yet_HA_HA."

"I need to make a call." Nick whipped his cell out and was about to send his mom an SOS when something occurred to him. "Er… Monroe – she's a creature of habit. If she's used that handle on e-bay, she'll use the same one everyone else. Just like her pin number. Could you…"

Monroe rolled his eyes and muttered. "Google her? Sure! Got nothing better to do. _There's_ a happy hour of my life I'm not getting back…"

As his friend bent over the tablet and hammered away, Nick walked out into Monroe's yard and dialled his mom's number. As always, he got her voicemail: "only one person has this number – if you are not he, I will track you down and destroy you," and left a short message to assure her that he didn't need destroying, but would like a call sometime very soon, please.

"OH MY GOD!"

Nick darted back into the house and found Monroe pressing himself back in his seat, keeping as much distance as possible between him and the tablet, like it was a bomb about to go off. Nick shook his shoulders gently. "What?"

Monroe pointed a shaky finger at ETSY, the handmade-and-vintage seller's site where there was a picture up on the screen of a big, fat comb, decorated with flowers along the bottom. The comb teeth were…

Nick gasped. "Are those…. Mauvais dentes'…"

"Yeah," Monroe choked. "Intriguing way of getting rid of the evidence. But I have to say, I couldn't be without one of these…" he scrolled down GrimKellyB's profile page to show what looked like a custard jug, only it was decorated on the side with a picture of a woodcutter cutting a wolf into a large number of tiny pieces, and the rest of the jug was decorated in drops of red arterial-style spray. "Are these intended as gifts? Are you supposed to like, show your appreciation to your nearest and dearest by offering them gory crockery, or what? I'm not even sure it's safe to serve out of that thing!"

Nick was saved from the necessity of making excuses for his mom's mental health when she returned his call. She sounded extremely cheerful, which worried him instantly.

"Hey Nicky! How's tricks?"

"Uh… tricky. Mom – should I wire you some money?"

"No, I'm fine. Why do you ask? Do you have some spare to wire?"

"HOLY CRAP!"

Nick moved further from the ipad while Monroe perused the list of handmade items, asking if any of them came with free tetanus shots. "Uh, not really, but if it'll stop you from trying to raise funds by putting Grimm armoury on e-bay―"

"Oh, that."

"Yeah, that! Why don't you just start your own website? Grimm Homewares dot com?"

"My stocks are low. Oh, chill out. Most of it's gothic art anyway. People won't even know where it's all come from. You'd be surprised what people will buy. I've shifted fifty pink Lebensauger tee-shirts already. It's nearly paid for the dishwasher."

"So, if you're not trying to raise money―"

"I'm de-cluttering, Nick. I've been speaking to a very nice lady twice a week for an hour at a time, and she's told me that I'm hanging on to my past too hard."

Nick felt hopeful. "Does this mean that custard jugs featuring homicidal designs are now… part of your past?"

"No, that's therapy. Hang on – you've just seen that? It's still there? Damn – I'd hoped I'd sold that one."

"Mom – topic evasion! Could you please de-clutter less publicly and stop selling deadly items on e-bay and Etsy?"

"Oh…. Fine. Tell you what – come round, bring Monroe and Hank, and we'll have lunch."

This sounded slightly more normal. Slightly more hospitable than normal, sure, but a good thing. "Fine. Sunday?"

"Wonderful. See you guys then. And after lunch, we can have a yard sale."


	3. 12 days of Eisbiber Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what anyone would do with the barmy parade of gifts in the original 12 days of Christmas song, but I thought I'd have fun adapting it a bit to the world of Grimm…

 

* * *

**On the first day of Christmas, a Biber gave to me… a Geier in a pear tree!**

From: [Nick@UFRS.org.com](mailto:Nick@UFRS.org.com)

To: [Bud@fixyourfridge.com](mailto:Bud@fixyourfridge.com)

 

Subject: cheers!

Dear Bud

Thanks very much for the pear tree! One of my neighbours has helped me to plant it in the communal area of our apartment block – in exchange for future fruit. The Geier was a bit of a surprise. It took me a little while to help my neighbour recover from her panic attack. But, having done his mandatory leap, the Geier made his own way home. He had things to do, apparently. I'm looking forward to the fruit! Will drop your gift off later

Thanks again

Nick

* * *

**On the second day of Xmas, a Biber gave to me… two purple gloves…**

Hank and Nick were two miles into the borders of Mount Hood by the time Hank cracked and had to say something about Nick's new apparel. "So… the gloves! Present from your mom?"

Nick looked bemused. "No, Bud and his wife. Why? Is there something significantly 'Grimm' about purple gloves?"

"Hey, you're the Grimm, not me. No, I just thought that they were made by people who really… cared about you."

"Ok, so they're knitted. And a little bobbly. But to be able to feel my fingers up here? I can live with that."

"Did you look at them before you put them on?" Hank fought with a smirk and the smirk won hands down.

"No, I kinda just stuffed them on." Nick holstered his gun and flipped his hands palm-down, then palm-up, then... groaned. "Oh you're kidding me."

Hank pushed his way through the shrub, grinning hugely. "I think it's kind of cute that they feel the need to remind a Grimm which hand is left, and which is right. Especially when they take the time to lovingly knit L and R into the pattern…"

* * *

**On the third day of Xmas, a Biber gave to me… three French hens…**

From: [Nick@UFRS.org.com](mailto:Nick@UFRS.org.com)

To: [Bud@fixyourfridge.com](mailto:Bud@fixyourfridge.com)

Subject: you're TOO kind

Hey Bud

Thanks for the hens left on my doorstep. They're quite hungry beasts and have sadly already eaten the purple gloves you left me yesterday. I was hoping, since you left them as a gift, that you might have some advice on upkeep. Firstly, are they safe with pizza? As in will it poison them? I've noticed that pizza isn't safe around them, at least. Secondly, can they fly? Because they're slightly agoraphobic, running around in panicked circles in my kitchen, and I thought they might be happier outside in the pear tree only I don't want to go up there with a ladder and a small hammock for them if they're going to fall out.

I really appreciate the thought that's gone into this season's gifts, but can I ask a favour? No more animals, please? I live in a very small flat now with thin walls and scared birds make a hell of a noise.

My regards to the lodge. See you tomorrow for the Xmas dinner

Nick

* * *

**On the fourth day of Xmas a Biber sent to me… 4 tetchy Drangzorns….**

"Ok, so I'll be around yours at about nine…" Nick swigged on his beer and chuckled as Monroe reeled through his list of planned festivities from Christmas eve onwards. They sounded _hectic._ The doorbell rang and Nick went to answer, still trying to keep up with Monroe. Opening the door was like being hit by a wall of terrible sound: four carol singers, noisy and insistent, yelled good King Wenceslas at him like their lives depended on it, each demonstrating their own individual knack for tunelessness.

"What is that?" Monroe demanded from the other end of the line.

"Um… carol-shouters?"

"They're _awful!_ "

The insult caused wogeing all round and Nick found himself closed in on his own doorstep by four furious faces, one of whom launched into a particularly punitive version of Jingle Bells, closely followed by the others.

"Uh… they're also Drangzorn. Please don't make me agree with you out loud or they'll come at me―"

"PAY ATTENTION! WE ARE SINGING!"

Nick backed up a couple of involuntary steps and nearly tripped over his own coffee table, which the 'singing' Drangzorn took as their cue to move in. "Uh Monroe, I'd better go. I think they're planning a…medley."

"God. Good luck Nick!" Monroe rang off, leaving Nick to drop back on his sofa, surrounded, and then he endured one of the most painful half hours of his life as they worked their way through The Holly and the Ivy, far-from-silent night, and the first No-hell. His head was ringing by the time they'd finished and took a group bow.

"WITH LOVE FROM THE LODGE!" the tallest of the Drangs barked at him, and they disappeared into the night.

* * *

**On the fifth day of Xmas some Bibers gave to me… five gold… things(?)**

Nick finished his dinner, shared pleasantries with his Eisbiber neighbours on either side on the big round table, and attempted to sneak off into the night while he was still legal to drive and get the hell home and into bed. He got as far as the bottom of the steps leading out of the lodge cellar and into the opening when he ran into the Lodgemaster who blocked his way beamingly and holding an ancient-looking box.

"This is just a small token of appreciation for our esteemed Grimm―"

"Um.. this _really_ isn't necessary. I've had a lovely evening, the carol-singers were… enthusiastic…"

"Come on! Open up!"

Nick took the box hesitantly and opened it as eagerly as he'd unwrap a suspect package. The glow inside the box hurt his eyeballs and he had to squint a moment before he could focus. Five golden balls. No, not balls – ball-shaped. They were golden, but fluffy. Moving. Gold, fluffy, unidentifiable pets. He smiled weakly. "What are these?"

The Lodgemaster looked really pleased with himself. "Firstborn Seltenvogel chicks! They burst out of the rock after they've been incubating for a week. Enjoy!"

Nick put his hand in the box and one of the balls shuffled into his palm, tickling him with tiny feet. It squeaked meekly at him and stuck a feathery head out from its body. "What do they eat?"

"Oh, I daresay they'll eat whatever you eat. They're very affectionate when they get to know you."

Nick winced. "And until they get to know you…? OW!" the pup nipped a finger by way of answer and he popped it hastily back into the box.

Nick got in his car, box on the front seat, and drove round to Monroe's. after fifteen minutes of Monroe and Rosalee pretending that they weren't in, he took the squeaking box home, popped some water into the box, and used the chicks as a bedside light.

* * *

**On the sixth day of Xmas, some Bibers gave to me.. six geese a-laying…**

From: [Nick@UFRS.org.com](mailto:Nick@UFRS.org.com)

To: [Secretariat@Portland_Lodge.org.com](mailto:Secretariat@Portland_Lodge.org.com)

 

Subject: Please no more birds!

Dear Lodgemasters

Thanks for the six geese. I found them on my fire escape this morning, making an egg-pile. My neighbours are now not speaking to me because of the honking, the crapping, the attempt to bite the local cats and their very noisy fights with the three French hens in the pear-tree. Because of the French hens (which appear very precious about their personal space), they need to be kept indoors and it is no longer safe to take a bath, shower, or generally leave them unattended for more than a couple of minutes. I'm sorry to say this, but I've had to take them to a local wildlife centre to be re-homed. I also took the seltenvogel chicks, which appear to have decided that the geese are their parents and follow them everywhere. Please do not take this personally, but I'm a busy Grimm with a full-time job and, as I've pointed out to Bud, a very small apartment.

You're very kind, but please – no more birds.

Thanks

Nick

* * *

**On the seventh day of Xmas some Bibers gave to me… seven snoring Siegbarstes**

From: [Nick@UFRS.org.com](mailto:Nick@UFRS.org.com)

To: [Secretariat@Portland_Lodge.org.com](mailto:Secretariat@Portland_Lodge.org.com)

 

Subject: STOP!

lodgemasters

Firstly thank you for the kind thought behind the recent onslaught of gifts. I know you mean well but I fear that some of your ideas are not very fully thought-through. I'm not exactly sure what I was supposed to do with a mini-van full of snoring Siegbarstes? They were neither ornamental nor melodic while asleep, and on waking, slightly homicidal to find themselves half-drugged in a mini-van staring at a Grimm. What did you think I was going to do? Have them to stay for a sleepover? Keep them in the garage? Take them for a beer? And how on earth did you round up SEVEN of them? I am now trying to find a substance strong enough to re-drug them with so that I can release them into the wild. I really prefer things a bit more traditional.

Not wishing to be ungracious, but no more birds/livestock/Siegbarstes, please.

Thanks

Nick

* * *

**On the eighth day of Xmas some Bibers sent to me… 8 maids-a-milking!**

From: [Nick@UFRS.org.com](mailto:Nick@UFRS.org.com)

To: [Secretariat@Portland_Lodge.org.com](mailto:Secretariat@Portland_Lodge.org.com)

Subject: WTF?

Dear lodge,

Ok, when I say that I prefer things a bit more traditional, I'm talking about socks, wine, rare beer, chocolate coins, that kind of stuff. Not eight maids milking. What in God's name am I going to do with eight maids hell-bent on milking? I HAVE NO COWS. In the absence of cows, the poor girls have been sitting around, clenching and unclenching their fists, looking lost, libidinous and weird. This is when they're not being terrorised by the Siegbarstes, who are still hanging around, by the way, because I've been too busy protecting the maids from being dragged into the bedroom to milk 'other things' to go out and get the stuff to drug the Siegbarstes with.

Please, please stop with the noisy gifts? I really don't want to get evicted!

Grimmly,

Nick

* * *

**On the tenth day of Xmas some Bibers sent to me… ten Lloronas lurking…**

Nick got up, swung his legs out of bed and staggered towards the shower room. The day before seemed like a really bad dream. He'd got home from work to find nine ladies waiting for him on his first floor landing and as soon as he appeared, they switched on a tape player and launched straight into the Can-Can. He'd only just dropped all the Siegbarstes off into the wilderness, and then driven the milking maids off at the Repetitive Strain Injury clinic. It then took three overnight shifts to leave all the dancers at Barry Rabe's frat house at Portland State. He felt like a walking ache.

He swung open the bathroom door to be met with a vision of white – a fast-moving vision of white that came right up into his face and knocked him flat. The ghostly female face of a Llorona hovered above his for a few seconds and then, once determining that he was neither a boy nor girl of ages 7-10 years old, floated morosely back into his shower.

"Right. This means war!" Nick stomped to the kitchen to wash there instead, pulled some clothes on and called Monroe.

"Morning, Nick. And what's the ridiculous query of the day?"

"Do you know a wesen exorcist?"

"Uh Nick… I'll be honest. You've really got me stumped on that one. I may know someone, but it's more like they've got a fixation on Poltergeist than anything else. What's the problem?"

Nick explained.

"Oh man. You know, this isn't really my area. They're technically not … wesen. But if they can be rounded up to be taken to your place―"

"―Then they can be rounded up and taken to the lodge. I want them to haunt the Eisbibers' private Jacuzzi instead. See how they like _that_."

* * *

**On the eleventh day of Xmas some Bibers gave to me…eleven pipers piping….**

Nick rapped his knuckles angrily against the doorjamb while he waited for Bud to pick up at the other end of the line. No matter where he moved in his apartment, all he could hear was the pack of Reinigen outside playing 'Greensleeves', and on a secondary level, he heard thumps of annoyance through his neighbours' walls, through his floor and above his head. The Reinigen were gathered in the communal yard, blasting away cheerfully. The dialling tone at the other end of the line clicked into voicemail and he heard Bud's blustering message. "If this is regarding a fridge fix, please leave a message. If this is regarding a bunch of noisy musicians, it's not my fault – it's the lodge – please, please don't kill me. Leave your message after the beep – a nice one, please – and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

Nick gritted his teeth, didn't bother leaving a message, and went to get the crossbow that he kept under the cupboard for emergencies. Striding over to his rear window, he fired the crossbow into the pear tree, over the heads of the French hens, which went berserk and shat all over the pipe-playing Reinigen, scattering them everywhere. They trailed off, clearly sensing his lack of love for their performance, and filed out of the back yard dejectedly.

Nick slammed the rear window shut, waited for the angry neighbourly thudding to quit, then hit his laptop and his iphone. He had some things to do…

* * *

**On the twelfth day of Xmas, a cross Grimm sent to Biebs…**

Twelve drangzorns drumming

Eleven lebensaugers lounging

Ten lowen leaping

Nine mordstiers moping

Eight Bauerschwein bathing

Seven stangebar stretching

Six skalengek spitting

Five mellifer stings…

Four stoned siegbarstes

Three spent hens

Two purple gloves

And a Geier out of his tree.


End file.
